A poem for Mon(sun)day

by electricgenizah

I recently came across this in a collection of poems written by long-time author and translator WIllis Barnstone. He wrote them in French when he was a young expat living in France in the 60s, and translated them into English years later – so we have a poet in old age translating the work of his youth, while he originally wrote in a second language while learning that language…. Translations within translations :-)

 

Dawn Cafe

 

I sleep and already live tomorrow. Must be
Monday. No, it’s a beautiful negligent Sunday
    morning

and I dance with God, a beautiful woman
who tells me mouth to mouth in my soul
    the banal

secrets of my confusion and why
I can’t sleep, why I feel forced
    to get up

from sleep to speak to you in the black,
in the hours before the dawn café
    that saves me

undoubtedly. I kid myself. I kiss
the mouth of God. She is soft and doesn’t
    blame me

for dying without hope. She assures me
her presence isn’t necessary
    and I love her,

devastated by her remoteness.
I’m cold. Winter lies on my knees. Warm
    she is smiling.